Bittersweet
by Distopia
Summary: When all your dreams have been realised, what else is there left for you?
1. One: Phoenix

Title: Bittersweet

Summary: When all your dreams have been realised, what else is there left for you?

Disclaimer: Pokemon, not mine etc blah blah.

About: I plan for this to be full of drabbles. Just my thoughts on the pokemon universe in general... expcet updates to be sporadic.

* * *

_It was such a pity_, all the house wives fervently agreed. A real tragedy, all that talent going to waste, they would murmur. True enough, he had the talent for it, they would titter behind their hands, and certainly the experience to the job well. He was nothing like what he once was, their eyes told him, and never would be again.

_It was such a pity_, the husbands grumbled, reminiscing on the past over cold beer and replays of the Indigo Conference. That boy could have gone far, they would tell each other with knowing nods. Two leagues decimated in less than a year and half; why, it was practically un-heard of! They reminded one another of the clever moves he'd used in battle, reliving the long gone days of glory. It was a shame, they murmured into their drinks, but things like this just happen.

After all, who really wants a Champion that can't read?

--

It was the pity that angered him the most.

Most days, he could brush off the snide, side long looks and the snickers and chuckles behind upraised hands. On particularly good days, even, he could bare the guffaws as oldsters reminisced, verbally dissecting each and every battle, laying bare every mistake. But every once in a while, as he served the newest generation of trainers from behind the counter of the Pokemart, there came something that he could not ignore.

_Pity_.

Mostly, it came from the older trainers, who'd fought tooth and nail for their knowledge and skills, and balanced precariously on the top, always wary of youngsters looking to knock them off. They looked at him and _knew_, with a sympathy that made him tremble, everything that he'd sacrificed.

Cold cans of beans and slimy spaghetti-o's, so he could by top-grade pokemon food for his team. Threadbare clothes and a sleeping bag full of holes, so he could buy one more potion, a desperately needed antidote. Nights alone on the road, pushing himself to his limit, helping one pokemon learn a newfound technique.

School wasn't important; it was wasted time. For eighteen months, he had lived, breathed, _existed_ solely as a pokemon trainer and nothing else. And afterwards...

The trainer looks down at his till, counting out the change with slow, methodical motions that make the youngster in front of him fairly dance with impatience. _After_, he reflects. Afterwards, he'd travelled the world on his winnings until he was penniless, and forced to hole up in a town where everyone had an opinion about what he _should_ have done.

Looking back on his past, he can find nothing to regret. He was Champion- and really, that's all that matters.


	2. Two: Darkest Hour

Title: Darkest Hour

Disclaimer: Pokemon, not mine etc blah blah.

About: In the games, the adults are so stern about children never wandering away, despite pokemon being shown as a part of every day life. That got me thinking… there would have to be regions where pokemon trainers where few and far between and rarely ventured- just what would the pokemon there think of humans?

--

"Lacy..."

The boy hisses urgently, trembling with nerves and the cold as he peeks around the bulk of the tree. Brows furrowed with concentration, his sister flips him a rude signal and hisses for him to be quiet. Biting his lip, the youngster edges back and forth from the side of the tree, unwilling to watch the trouble his sister is sure to stir, but unable to truly look away.

Moving carefully, the girl wriggles under a bush and sneaks closer. They are down-wind; the girl has made sure of this, watching the episode of Trainer Mary over and over again, because this is what needs to be done. Wincing as a stubborn branch rakes down her side, she moves closer, on her elbows and knees.

Her baby brother is still fidgeting, and the need to scold him burns in her throat like a breath of air held for too long. But she pushes the temptation away fiercely. Trainer Mary is kind and sweet and nice to _her_ little brother, and perhaps it is okay to follow that example just this _once_.

Sucking in her stomach and flinching away from slimy leaf mold and what looks like rattata scat, she worms closer to the edge of the tiny clearing. Lacy has been watching the small heard of ponyta for weeks now, getting closer and closer each time, letting them get used to her scent. Of course, Trainer Mary didn't have to spend half as long doing this, but Lacy consoles herself with the thought that _her_ ponyta friend will be much better, anyway.

Breathing shallowly, because there's a funny smell in the air that makes her feel sick, she wriggles a bit more and cautiously pushes some brushes aside.

It doesn't occur to Lacy to be suspicious of the fire-ponies being awake so long after sundown. It is nearly midnight, but she notices nothing unusual, her head filled full of daydreams and a quickly quashed longing for her bed.

Nickering, heads bobbing, the pony pokemon mill in the clearing, flames surging up and down, the flickering of the fire-light strangely hypnotic. Lacy feels her eyelids drooping and jerks herself awake. An elderly ponyta is hobbling to the edge of the herd now, eyes rolling to show the whites, skin rippling as it fights back fear.

Anger fills Lacy; this isn't the one that she wants! Trainer Mary got a beautiful young ponyta with a coat like snow, and Lacy has being eyeing off one of the fillies clustered in the centre of the herd. This is _wrong_. Incensed, she gets to her feet, intending to scare the old ponyta away.

When the herd of beautiful fire ponies freeze in terror and scream shrilly in alarm, at first she thinks it is because she has scared them. Ahead of her, the older ponyta snorts and paws at the ground, jerking his head and grunting urgently. Lacy ignores him, stomping forward, and opens her mouth to yell at him.

Cherry red flames blazing high, the ponyta risks one last glance at her and then bolts, kicking up dust and dirt with its hooves. Choking on the strangely thick smell that has invaded the clearing, she doubles over, fighting for air. There is something warm at her back, and for a moment she thinks it is Mark, the big scaredy-meowth.

Then sharp claws rake a bleeding gash from shoulder to thigh and she screams, rolling on the ground, hacking and coughing as the world dims and blurs. Warm, fetid breath washes over her face and she tries to scream again, but only manages to gurgle instead. Puzzled, she reaches pudgy fingers up to her throat, and feels something warm and slick running in rivulets down her front. Dazed, she thinks of what a mess she looks like; Trainer Mary would _never_ have gotten so dirty; and wonders why she feels so sleepy. Somewhere, from far away, she hears a thin, high pitched sound that might be a scream- but it is fading away, and when did it get this dark?...

Shaking herself vigoruously, the houndoom bitch grunts, calling her pups. Yapping and squalling, they tumble from the bushes where she hid them, and investigate the corpse curiously. They look at her, wondering what the word for this food is. Already they know the words for the burning-runners, the small-ground-diggers, and the flying-things. But this is something they have not yet seen in their romps around the forest.

The bitch whines and frowns, sniffing at the strange thing. It looks a little like the fighting pokemon she occasionally sees on the lower slopes of the valley, but is much paler, and covered in a strange, thin fur that rips easily. She nudges the corpse again, inhaling deeply as she searches her memory banks. Still nothing, and she licks cautiously at the gaping ruin of the things throat.

_Easy-kill_, she grunts at her pups, and they settle down too feed. Still, something about the creature makes her ill at ease, and when they are done she chars the bones to ash and buries them as deeply as she can. Satisfied by this she leads the pups back to the den, and ignores the thin, shaking form of a boy wrapped around a sturdy tree limb high over her head; she is full, and the prey will be easy to track tomorrow, when her pups clamour for food once more.

Later that week there is a massive manhunt in the Blackthorn mountains, as authorities search for a young girl and her brother. Their teary eyed parents plead with the public to give them something -_anything_- that might help the two be found. Eventually, a young girl comes forward, saying that she heard that Lacy wanted a Ponyta just like Trainer Mary.

The police sigh and shake their heads, as the situation becomes all too familiar. There is a reason why they tell young children to stay out of tall grass, after all.

--


	3. Three: Rider

Title: Rider

Disclaimer: Pokemon, not mine etc blah blah.

About: Was thinking about the pokemon economy and Blackthorn. There would have to be little villages and towns tucke dup in the mountains- there always are. Mining towns, for ores or gems... Or maybe another staple of the pokemon world? I've always thought berries where for people to; gives the world more variety. Anyway, I was considering just how these little towns would get supplies, and it neatly dove-tailed with a 'fic idea I've been toying with. You'll probably see more of Jo; I have heaps of shorts about her saved everywhere, but not enough to publish. Anyway, musings on small towns and itinerant 'delivery men'.

"Ho! Rider on the trail!"

In fits and starts, people and pokemon all around the valley straightened and peered down the dusty, curved track that led into the tiny village. This late in the season it was rare to have visitors; not many would dare brave the harsh and unforgiving conditions of the Blackthorn Ranges. Late summer sun sent deceptive heat shimmers rippling through the air, but it was still possible to see a blurry red and cream figure moving briskly towards them.

The villagers drifted from their tasks, setting down gathering baskets and laying down timber and tools. By the time the figure had resolved into a young woman mounted on a rapidash, almost all of the close knit community was gathered in the centre of the village. A gentle U-shaped curve of houses bracketed the only entry way into Chesto valley, with a wide berry tree shading the centre of the beaten earth square.

"Ho, Chesto Valley! Got a shipment for ya!"

Waving cheerfully, a slim young woman vaulted from the back of her rapidash, gesturing to the pack train of tauros following closely behind her. Cherry flames flickering quietly, the fire-horse nudged his trainer with his nose and pranced forwards a few steps, arching his neck proudly. There where suitably admiring whispers from the younger women in the crowd, but the adults were more interested in the goods that the Rider had brought with her.

"Got some more drying racks for you, most of the stuff on your list and a few extras. Rogan sent some hay down as well for your stock; been a real dry summer."

There where approving murmurs from the older folk; clearing his throat gruffly, the head man walked up to the rider. Moving with languid, easy grace, the young woman was gathering up the leads on the tauros, and leading them over to the wide watering trough set just to the side of the track. A few young men moved forward and took them from her, all careful to let the tauros only have a quick drink as too much water in thirsty bellies could tie them up in colic.

"Got some paperwork for me, Missy Rider?"

Jo didn't flinch at the 'missy' anymore, as nearly six months now spent in tiny villages like Chesto had made her prickly temper back down. Twitching her mouth into a smile, she gave a loose limbed shrug and leant up against her rapidash, who lipped idly at her dusty, pale brown hair. Tall and solid like so many of his folk, Brent watched her with calm eyes as she tugged a thick wad of paper from one of several pouches strapped to her body. Flicking it out, Jo considered the printed documents for a moment.

"Chesto, Chesto... Ah! Here we are."

Shuffling the papers about, the Rider neatly folded the ones she didn't need back into her pouch, and pulled a small electronic scanner unit out at the same time. Handing the headman his copy to pursue, she moved over to the tauros, who had been staked out in the shade of the small copse of trees on the right hand side of the of houses.

Fiddling with the scanner, she punched buttons and scribbled on the touch screen until she finally reached the menu she needed. Flicking her eyes away from the screen, she spared a smile for the boy with wicked eyes looking her over, and turned back to the Headman, who was scratching at his thick beard as he carefully read through the print-out.

"Freeze dried jerky, whet stones, sewing needles... Rider, who put this order through?"

Jo frowned and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, turning away from the gently lowing tauros. The bull-type pokemon where good for hauling goods long distance, and she was making sure that none of their load had shifted or injured them since her last check.

"Huh. Lesse..."

Tapping at her scanner with an authoritative air, she scanned through the data listed for Chesto Valley. When Rogan, head of the Riders, had sent her out on this circuit he'd warned her of trouble with this particular village. The berries the village produced where in high demand not only from trainers but gourmet chefs, and keeping the Chesto community happy and running smoothly was a high priority. Their employers in particular had put stress on the latter, and the hard look in the headman's eye was making Jo more than a little nervous.

"It's listed as being put in by George, the Rider who last did your circuit , on the authority of Trammel. That any one you know, Headman..."

Shooting her an unamused look, the taller man grunted and eyed off the tauros again.

"Brent. Must been... oh, almost four months ago George last went through. You say Trammel did the ordering?"

Though she was loathe to let him have the expensive scanner, Jo turned it and with the push of a few buttons had the pertinent data high lighted.

"As you can see here, it was signed for by Trammel, who claimed to be the authority at the time."

Mouth tightening to a grim slash, Brent frowned hard and stared at the papers in his thick fist. Tense and ready for trouble, Jo eased closer to rapidash, and the pokeballs strapped to her riding gear on his broad back. Fiddling with the scanner, Jo reviewed the list again. It was mostly standard goods; perishables, new clothing, harvesting gear. There were a few oddities, but when she'd gone to the warehouse to pick up her next delivery she'd been more interested in just getting the hell out of there and away from a particularly grabby Silph Co employee.

"Huh. Well, we ain't be needn' haffa this, Rider."

Toying the straps on her sturdy vest, Jo heaved a sigh and leant up against her rapidash, projecting an air of nonchalance, mind churning. There was standard procedure for this, of course, but Rogan's warning thrummed ominously through her thoughts. She'd have to tread carefully.

"Well, Head-man Brent, you've been charged nothing beyond the deposit and half the transport fees just yet. Under standard procedures, I'm authorised to take back the goods you no longer want, and offer half price delivery on those you want in return."

The crowd of villagers muttered and turned to one another, clearly unhappy with the offer, and Jo eased her pokeballs down off the saddle and around her hips. She eyed off the tauros, wondering whether it was worth the reprimand she'd earn to just cut her losses and get the hell out of Chesto Valley. The Rider didn't like the way the tough-looking pokemon where sidling closer to their owners, or the dark and unsettling glares being sent her way. But Headman Brent had yet to reply.

"Half-price, Rider? Why ye be offering _half-price_ on the goods we never got in the first place?"

Jo eased away from rapidash, who was living up to his nickname; snorting and prancing, Valor scuffed his diamond hard hooves on the dusty ground and hovered protectively over his trainer. Remembering her training, and countless other show-downs with hard headed villagers, Jo firmed her spine. Feet at shoulders width, chest arched slightly forward, jaw firm, she presented a solid and confident front.

"Head-man Brent, the Riders deliver those goods we have been contracted to supply. If you have a quarrel with that order, take it up with this 'Trammel', whoever he is."

There was a disgusted snort from somewhere far back in the crowd, and a curvaceous red-head shot the Rider a withering glare.

"Trammel died three months back; the eejit got caught in a landslide."

Jo returned the woman a cool, steady glare, and only once the red-head had looked away did she turn back to the solid and imposing figure of Brent.

"Be that as it may, my offer still stands. Note on the list the goods you don't want, and as per standard Rider procedure, I can arrange to have their replacements shipped out at half-price."

The Rider _knew_ just how tricksy hill-folk could be, knew it right down to the marrow, where a small girl child had once watched her elders wheedle, cajole and outright manipulate Riders into getting anything extra and cheaper that they could. Hill-folk where tough bastards, each an every one of them convinced they were owed more than they were due- and Jo was _not_ going to back down.

Brent shifted his weight and pursed his lips, eyeing off the dusty ox-pokemon and their burdens, before considering the list in his grip. The villagers at his back leant forward, eager to see any sort of confrontation- but there was none forthcoming. Grunting, Brent spat off to the side and gave a thoughtful nod.

"Huh. Half-price, aye, _Rider_? We'll see how much of this junk we can actually use then."

There were angry murmurs of protest from the villagers, which Brent silenced with a hard look, before he turned back to a silent Jo. Pulling her scanner back out of her pouch, the Rider shifted her pokeballs to put them more prominently on display, and briskly set about her work.

"Right. The first load is all harvesting gear; scythes, those drying racks..."

--==//==--

Two hours later and an exhausted Jo was sprawled out in the shade, Valor standing guard over her. There had been a few tense moments during unloading, but as usual, sly hillfolk had sidled forwards to claim some of the 'unneeded' goods. Jo had heard so many excuses that day that she was heartily sick and tired of Chesto Valley, and more than eager to put it to her back.

In the end the only spare goods had been light weight, miscellaneous items. The Rider had arranged for a pidgeot courier to fly in the replacements, and placed the spare goods in a left-over packing bag. With the Taurous bedded down for the evening she was loathe to saddle up and head out again, but she was leery of the hospitality of the surly villagers.

"Not a nice night for camping, Rider. Storms heading in."

Slitting her eyes, Jo tilted her head to meet the dancing gaze of the boy who'd been so unabashedly eyeing her over earlier that day. Valor nickered a low warning, and the dark haired boy eased over to a nearby tree, leaning up against it. Jo pulled herself up, deciding to play at being nice. If she could score a warm bed for the night, so much for the better.

"I've lived through worse, won't hurt me 'n Valor to get a bit wet."

Shifting on his hooves, the fire-horse snorted at the mention of rain and eyed off the boy again. Jo flapped a hand at the rapidash, who grunted and drifted away, ripping up thin heat-baked mouthfuls of grass. Turning to face him, she arched an eyebrow and waited for his reply.

"Aye, but it won't hurt ye none to stay out of it, either."

Thumbs hooked in his belt, the boy rocked on his feet and took a few steps forward into the dusty late afternoon light. Jo hastily revised the 'boy' to 'young man'. Despite his clean shaven cheeks, there was an air of maturity in those wicked eyes and sculpted cheekbones, and there was _definitely_ nothing boyish about the hard muscles under his loose fitting clothes. Jo felt something warm settle in her stomach, and gave him a slow smile.

"You offering me a warm bed for the night, then?"

With a wicked smirk to match the look in his eyes, the young man shifted closer, and offered her a hand up. Jo took it, eyeing him over consideringly.

"If you're wanting one. Names Rayne."

"Jo. C'mon Valor, looks like we're not getting wet tonight."

Eyeing the trim form of the Rider over, Rayne gave her a considering look in return, silently promising her a long, _long_ night. Jo doubted that he was half as good as he thought it was, but a warm bed was nothing to turn down. And in a week there would be another boy with wicked eyes, another night in a warm bed, and they would mean nothing more to her than a passing cloud shadow.

--==//==--

When Rayne woke the next morning, he rolled over with a satisfied groan, arm stretching out to grope a body that wasn't there. Sleepy and disorientated, he fumbled in the bed covers for a moment before getting to his feet. Yawning, he stumbled out into the main room of the house he shared with several other bachelors, and ignored their knowing looks and sniggers. The Rider wasn't there, and his heart sank a little at the thought.

Hitching the sheet higher up on his hips, he chanced a look out the window.

Pale brown hair swept back into a sleek braid, the Rider was briskly harnessing up her small convoy of tauros, making sure that each load of bulky berry-storage units was securely roped on. Rayne remembered that hair sliding over him like silk, and those rough hands stroking him with delicious friction. Pausing to give a vague smile to a curious villager, the Rider whistled sharply for her Rapidash, mounting him in one smooth leap.

The young man shivered in the cool air, remembering how long legs had wound around him, and bitterly wondered if the Rider would remember him at all. Calming the prancing stallion with a touch of her hand, the Rider conferred with the village head man for a moment before gathering up the leads of the pack train that had been so thoughtfully handed to her. Rayne watched her turn and leave, lips twisting harshly. Riders flitted through the mountains, never staying in one palce for too long- or one bed.

The old women were right, he decided, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he ignored the snickers of his roommates and stalked back to his tiny room. Riders where nothing but trouble-making, bed-hopping nuisances, and he wouldn't be making the same mistake again, he silently vowed.

At least until the next pretty face came along.

--==//==--

"Ah, it's good to be out of there! Sunshine, a clear trail and no more deliveries- what more could we want, eh Valor?"

Flicking one ear back, the rapidash ignored his trainer in favour of picking his way down the steep track. Grumbling and lowing, the tauros fidgeted and tugged their ropes, all eager to get back the closest Rider base and their stalls. Humming to herself, Jo admired the panoramic view she had of the Blackthorn Ranges. Mountains reared up on her left, and made smudgy indigo lines on the right as well, bracketing a thick expanse of forest. The trees cleared out in places, giving way to acres of golden grass, and Jo smiled as she watched ponyta and stantler grazing so far below.

Despite its ups and downs, Jo genuinely enjoyed her work. Sure, hauling cargo around was a real pain in the arse, but the scenery more than made up for it. And if the people where either wary or outright hostile- well, she hadn't really established herself yet, and hill-folk took awhile to trust strangers. Still, they _needed_ her. Every little pocket of stomped dirt they called a village genuinely needed the goods she brought, the packages and the letters that where a staple of the Riders Service.

Riders also served as adjudicators, as search-and-rescue teams, as part-time harvesters, or whatever was needed of them. If they could help they usually did, and the acts where sporadic enough that they were generally remembered. Riders might not be lauded as heroes, but the work they did was _important_, and Jo took pride in that.

"I'm way better than a pokemon trainer,"

She told Valor, who simply snorted and continued down the trail. Grinning, Jo stretched and eyed off the horizon. _Way better_, she silently repeated, and firmly stomped on the twinge of regret.

--==//==--


	4. Four: Wild Child

Title: Wild

Disclaimer: I don't own pokemon (but I do own Jo)

About: A little snippet about 'Jo'. Part of an ongoing effort, which kinda fizzled into nothing. The story is essentially JO makes friends with a wild ponyta curious about humans. The two spend a lot of time together, before each returning to their natural habitiats, and of course this makes a fair bit of trouble for Jo... I don't think I'll ever finish it properly, so I'll just post little snippets here instead.

* * *

She'd muffled his hooves with her shirt.

After so many years, the colt had gradually come to understand that humans needed to wear 'clothes' to protect their vulnerable, furless hides. Still, this business with his hooves…

The equine pokemon snorted in amusement as the young teen made an ineffectual growling noise as she attempted to tear a strip from her pants with her dull teeth. He glanced downwards, shifting his head until he could view his diamond hard hooves.

"Just a little bit more,"

She muttered, carefully winding a strip of cloth about his slim fetlock, his hind foot the last to be bound. The ponyta cautiously shifted on his feet, surprised to find that he made little to no noise when he did so. Delighted, he nickered and pranced a little, arching his neck playfully. Smothering her giggles, the teen placed a hand on the smooth curve of his neck, turning the two to face into the town.

"C'mon,"

Was her whisper, and the two carefully set off into the street. Shivering in the cold night air, the girl shifted closer to the fire pony, unconsciously seeking to draw warmth from him. One dark eye rolled her way, and the fire-pony cautiously eased up the heat of his flames, observing his environment as he did so.

"Careful, careful. We'll go up main street then through a couple of alleys and come up the side."

Somehow, the colt mused, it sounded more as though his human companion was trying to reassure herself more so than him. Ears perked up, his head swung around in interest as he noted the trappings of human civilization. In the quiet of early morning, the only sound was the soft 'shush-shushee' of his hooves against the pavement, the scrape of the girl-child's hoof coverings and the murmur of wind in the trees.

As the Ponyta became accustomed to the urban environment, he began to pick up on other distinctly human scents and sounds, but his companions increased nervousness drew him from his thoughts. Gently, the colt nudged her arm, and she rubbed his face out of habit.

"Yeah, we're almost there."

Up ahead loomed the giant Gym building, terraced with sloping roofs, each corner mounted by a graceful, curling statue of a dragon. Shifting nervously on cloth covered hooves, the Ponyta stared at the massive edifice with eyes rolling to the whites.

A gentle hand upon his shoulder had him quivering, before he budged further up against her, shoving the girl close to his body with his head. She blinked for a moment, before awkwardly hauling herself up onto his back. It was hard work, trying to mount him from a standing position when she had always done it with assistance. She grappled his withers, feeling her body overbalance dangerously as she teetered with her stomach in the hollow of his back.

With a gasp as the ponyta 'helpfully' nudged her backside, she finally managed to pull herself up and sit astride. She took a moment or too to settle her seat, winding her fingers into his silky, flaming mane. A gentle warmth wrapped around her as she did so, and the Ponyta took a few cautious steps forward, automatically adjusting his stride so as to compensate for her weight

Murmuring directions in his ears, she guided him up a narrow path between the steep cliffside and the sheer drop to the lake below, which the Gym sat in the middle of. Gentle wisps of sulphuric steam rose from the cloudy surface, and Ponyta snorted as he caught a whiff of the strange scent. How long it took them to trace the torturous Stantler path neither could pinpoint, but the moon had begun to fade from the sky by the time they reached the tiny glen, a sheltered clearing framed by towering pines.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

A snort and an enthusiastic head bob where her only response, as the colt looked around with interest, drinking in the peaceful scene. They stood there for a few minutes, before the young Ponyta carefully shuffled around, facing back the way they had come. This time as much of the journey was uphill, the teen walked alongside the colt, the two assisting one another over the rough patches of the twisting trail.

All too soon they were back in town, and the two stared in dismay at the tattered rags protecting his hooves. By now false dawn had lit up the sky, faint traces of gold and pink limning the horizon. They hesitated in the shade of the trees of the small park forming a stretch of neutral territory between the City and the Gym, longing eyes trained on the dark forest so near and yet so far away.

"We've got two choices. I rip the rest of my clothes up and face public humiliation, or we run through town hell for leather and wake _everyone_ up."

Mischief lit up her face as she stared him in the eyes. From what the colt had seen of the humans of her herd, they usually wore more fur on their bodies. His companion had a bare strip of fabric stretching across her chest, which barely covered the strange fur she wore beneath it. Below that, there were tattered strips of fur dangling from her hips, and from what she had told him he knew that this was not a good thing. The humans of her herd found shame in being seen without their fur, and in some way he managed to understand the sacrifice it would require of her to give up more of her fur for his safety.

And besides… He was _sick_ of skulking around. Every time he approached the strange place her herd dwelt in, it was under the cover of darkness, and he felt the thirst for adventure burning brightly within him. His ringing neigh split the sky, the flames at mane, tail, fetlock and pastern blazing brightly and reducing the sad remains of her fur to ashes. A wide grin bared her teeth, and he knew by now that she meant no threat by this.

"Let's do this!"

She cheered, scrambling back onto his broad back. This time the ponyta assisted her as much as he was able, and the two set off into the town, his diamond hard hooves clattering against the asphalt of the main road. Sparks flared from his hooves as he broke into a trot, the young teen upon his back flowing smoothly with his movements. It took not even a minute for people to begin raising their blinds and peering out into the street.

As dawn broke across the horizon, the Ponyta's fiery mane and tail blazed even brighter in response, throwing bright contrasting shadows across the shops and houses that they passed. Not taking any care to muffle his hooves, the Ponyta colt deliberately made as much noise as he possibly could.

Giggling and laughing, the girl upon his back looked around with wide eyes, before abruptly letting out a wild yell. Startled, the colt broke into a canter, diamond hard hooves clanging against the road. He slowed relatively quickly, but by now several people had walked out into their front yards, blinking and yawning as they stared at the strange sight of a young, scantily clad teen riding a decidedly wild Ponyta through the middle of Blackthorn.

The colt danced a little with nerves, unused to being observed by so many humans without the promise of any easy escape. Picking up on his unease, the teen leant forward.

"Let's run now- as fast as you can!"

Snorting, the Ponyta scraped one hoof against the ground, a flashing halo of sparks spiralling upwards to ring the two. Entire body quivering, he leapt into a sudden run, a blazing inferno whipping up behind him as the teen stoked him on with enthusiastic cries.

Chunks of asphalt where flung up from his hooves as he galloped along the road, a cream and red blur to any untrained eye. Adrenaline flooded the systems of the two as they raced through Blackthorn, angry shouts rising into the air as they passed. Lights began to flicker on across the small city, but by the time even a few of the nearby residents had asked anxious questions of their neighbours, the two were well clear of the city limits.

"Oh, that was _sooooo_ much fun!"

She cheered, hugging the excited Ponyta about the neck as he danced, skin quivering. His flames surged in response to his emotions, and the teen was quick to scramble away from him when the skin of her hands and arms began to tingle uncomfortably.

"Thank you for letting me show you the glen, Ponyta."

The colt bobbed his head and nudged her happily, letting out a joyful wicker. Grinning, she gave him a quick ear rub before turning back towards the city.

"I have to go home now, but I'll come see you tomorrow!"

Her voice rang out in the clear morning air and she shot the pokemon a jaunty wave as she began to jog back to her house. The ponyta whickered, half-rearing in response before he turned and wheeled, galloping back towards his herd.


	5. Five: Moonlight

Title: Moonlight

Disclaimer: I don't own pokemon, blah blah (nor do I own the idea of pokemorphs)

About: Inspired by a random fit of insomnia and wanting to write about pokemorphs in a naturalistic setting. I wanted to try out a different style and approach to my idea as well, and it all kinda unravelled in one sitting, which was awesome. I'm not that happy with the ending; I'll probably edit in a month or two after I've had time to think on what I've written. I was considering what would happen (Rather roughly actually) to a human pokemorph who went native- and if 'human' morphs could be born, then 'pokemon' morphs had to occur. Naturally a human is curious about/will repress their other side, so would a pokeon do so as well...? Anyway, enjoy.

* * *

She sits in the shadows and watches him.

The houndour pup is too small yet to know or recognise the strength of her regard, and blindly roots for his mothers teat. It is hard to gain sustenance; the other pups are all so much stronger than him, and it isn't long before his growing body begins to shrivel. As the runt he is the last to feed, the first to be bowled over by rambunctious littermates, and always, _always_ ignored by the rest of the pack.

Life in the Blackthorn mountains is hard, and they cannot afford to tolerate weakness.

Her intrusions are small and infrequent at first. The flash of fang, a sudden rumble of warning, a pointed snarl all serve to curb the energetic and carelessly cruel actions of his littermates. But as he grows older and begins his first, tentative explorations, her intrusions become more noticeable. She hovers at the edge of his vision, always watching him, and the pup learns enough to be curious.

Bellies full from a successful hunt, the pack leader comes first to his mate, offering her a meal of regurgitated meat. It is always this way; as the mother, she demands tribute in order to nourish the houndour pups so dependent on her. But they are almost eight weeks old now and more interested in meat, so they mob the returning hunters with high pitched, yapping cries and eager writhing bodies.

By now the pup knows that he has little chance of gaining a meal, and feels far too lethargic to bother trying. Sighing, he curls up in his little nest of leaves and shivers, knowing that death will soon come to claim him. He is roused form his uneasy slumber, however, by an insistent nudging. Making a quiet noise of protest, he pushes himself up on wobbling legs and stares at the female houndoom in quiet amazement.

Her red eyes catch the faint light as she shifts closer and nudges him again, urging the pup to his feet. Bewildered, the houndour stumbles forward against her forelegs, developing mind trying to understand what is happening. Then the bitch lowers her head and regurgitates meat for him, and the rich scent of it makes his thin body tremble with eagerness. He gorges himself on it, and all too soon his shrunken stomach has rapidly expanded until it is taut and round.

Grunting with satisfaction, the houndoom bitch scratches at the leaves, turns about a few times and then lays down. The pup watches her, waiting for her to snarl and drive him away- but instead she reaches out, grabs him firmly by the scruff of the neck and drags him between her paws. Ignoring his high-pitched complaints she treats him to a thorough tongue bath, and by the time she is done the pup is drowsing. Tucking him close against her body the bitch curls about him and drifts off into a light sleep, ready to awake at a breath of trouble.

When the pup wakes his silent benefactor is gone, and he tumbles back in with his littermates as they yap and squabble, chasing one another about and teasing their resigned gaurdians. By the time hunger begins to gnaw at his belly the hunters have returned; feeling strong now, he moves towards them. Silent as a ghost, the bitch drifts from the bushes, grabs him by the scruff of the neck and drags him back to her small patch of leaves.

He wriggles and squirms impatiently until she feeds him, and then looks at her with a kind of silent wonder. They settle into a routine quickly enough, and under her care the runt quickly grows stronger. With one adult solely devoted to his care it is not long before the runt is almost equal in size to his littermates, and he takes great pride in his few victories against them when playful mouthing and tussling turns series.

As the pups grow they slowly learn the subtle language the adults of the pack speak, made up as much of body language as it is vocalizations. The runt learns to listen and watch closely, to guess the moods of his play mates before they become evident, as the bitch rarely speaks and when she does it is succinct and to the point. By the time the pup is almost a year old most of his littermates have earned names, and they taunt him for his lack and the strange bronze mark on his shoulder.

He does not understand what is so strange about this mark. The bitch who cares for him has one also, shaped like a crescent moon, and she flicks one ear in silent amusement when he whines about it to her, flopped out in the shade. She considers him for a long moment, and as she does the houndour pup marks the differences between them.

Like all houndour he is half the size of his fully evolved counterpart, with bone armour about his wrists, ankles, and across his back. He has the same black and tan colouring, the long and whippy tail; but where as the bitch has long, sharply pointed horns, he has a smooth bone armour covering his vulnerable skull and upper neck. It is shaped much like the skull present on every houndoom chest, and he thinks wistfully of the day when he can evolve and wear it as a badge of pride.

That which is different is always feared,

The bitch tells him, and nudges him with her nose when he drops his forepaws, whining and barking that it isn't _fair_ it's not a _proper_ answer and why does she have to be so cryptic, anyway? Smacking him lightly with her tail, the houndoom bitch taunts and teases the pup until he forgets why he is so upset and confused, and then tells him to stay put.

She drifts off into the undergrowth, and the pup watches her leave. He thinks now he knows something of the way she achieves this, and he practices the movements with exaggerated care on his littermates. They don't particularly care for being ambushed, but that is fine; it gives him more practice at hiding, anyway.

When the houndoom bitch comes back later that evening, she does not bring a half chewed carcass or a hunk of meat. Instead, she brings him a small, frightened rattata with a broken leg. The pup crouches and watches it avidly, as the mouse pokemon whimpers and tries to crawl away, whiskers twitching and ears flickering every which way. Excited, the pup pounces, and lets out a shrill yelp of pain when the rodent sinks its fangs into his paw. His movements become cautious and wary as he stalks the rattata about the small clearing, darting in an about before it has a chance to strike.

Eventually he wears it down the point of exhaustion, and it watches him through glassy eyes as he cautiously nudges it. Her expression exasperated, the bitch heaves herself to her feet and pads over, bowling the pup over with a lazy flick of her tail.

You show the prey no respect by taunting it so. Give them a quick, clean death and be thankful that they give us life.

She admonishes him sternly, and the pup whines, ears flattened against his skull and tail wound about his legs. The bitch narrows her eyes and rumbles with irritation, but relents and moves away after a long moment. Trembling with nerves, the pup edges closer to the half-dead rattata and nudges it onto its back. He circles it for a minute or two before cautiously mouthing at its throat.

Making no comment, the bitch settles down and watches, occasional flicks of her tail and twitches of her ears informing the pup to her temper as he glances at her for encouragement. Growling, he sinks his teeth in a little deeper and worries at the neck of the rattata. It is hard for his baby teeth to cut through fur and gristle, but after a while he succeeds in gnawing through its neck.

Though clearly unimpressed by his technique, the bitch does not take the rodent away from him, and the pup feels a flush of pride at the thought of his first kill.

After this, she begins bringing him wounded prey. His littermates receive the same sort of attention from the rest of the pack, of course, but the pup doubts that they are being taught how to hunt just yet. The bitch corrects him on his technique and gently encourages him, teaching him the life skills he will need to survive. Slowly, he learns how to ghost through the underbrush with barely a sound, to approach prey from downwind so they do not scent him, to rush forward and pounce and snap before the prey have a chance to escape.

He is well over a year old now and drawing away from her; he has earnt his name now, the last of his litter-mates to do so. Quiet-feet they call him, on account of his near silent footsteps and fondness for sneaking up and pouncing on his packmates. He accepts the name gratefully, but wonders if he has really earnt it; he still cannot surprise the bitch, after all.

And then one night he does.

It has been a long day with an unsuccessful hunt leaving the pack tired and sprawled in the shade near the den when Quietfeet sees the bitch quietly slip away. He knows of her habits, of course, and that is partly why the pack shuns her somewhat, but feels that this time is different. Getting up, Quietfeet pads into the sparse undergrowth after her, using every skill he has learnt so far to his advantage.

The young houndour is stunned when he follows the bitch to a trickling, water-fall fed pool and the bitch shows no sign of noticing his presence. Fairly trembling with excitement now, he readies himself to leap forward and pounce- but something gives him pause.

Expression serene, the houndoom wades until the pool, and as she does so her entire body ripples like the reflection of the moon in water. Quietfeet watches this, stunned, and cannot understand what is happening when the bitch straightens and stands up in the water, a houndoom no longer.

She is, instead, the one thing the pack has always been taught to be wary of and even fear; a human. The houndour sniffs cautiously, relaxing only when her scent remains familiar. It is different, of course, but not radically so and this reassures him. Making quiet human noises, she splashes about in the pool, soaking herself completely.

Quietfeet wants to understand this strange behaviour and creeps forward, examining this not-her closely. Just like the young houndour she has a strange mark in her fur, and he is puzzled to see it ion her human body also. The sight confuses him, for it means that they two must surely be linked, and yet...

Perhaps this explains things, like why she is only tolerated by the pack, yet never attacked or driven away by the higher ranking members. She has no proper name, either, but most have taken to calling her Walks-alone and she seems content enough to answer to this. Still, she is never completely accepted and now Quietfeet thinks that this must surely be the answer.

Mind buzzing, he breaks out into the small clearing, a quiet bark of welcome rumbling in his throat when the moonlight slides across his fur. A strange, rippling feeling courses through him, and Quietfeet shivers as the bronze mark on his shoulder begins to itch and burn. Whining deep in his throat as Walks-alone turns to look at him, clearly startled, Quietfeet drops to his belly as the moonlight ghosts over his body, leaving pain and a fiery itchiness in its wake.

He trembles and strains against it, mind blurry and chaotic with thought as he strains to bring some form of clarity to this situation. He feels cool hands slide across his muzzle- and then suddenly they are not catching on fur but slipping from slick skin, and he is trembling in the sudden cold. Quietfeet is terribly confused, and automatically looks to the bitch for answers.

Human lips curl into a whimsical smile as she brushes strange not-fur from his eyes and pulls him close to her in a gentle hug. The houndour-turned-human is not quite sure what to make of this. He has no idea how to communicate with Walks-alone in this strange body, and yet something is allowing him to understand the gestures and movements she makes.

Pulling back, the young woman searches his eyes, and reads his confusion in them.

"Sshh, little one, it will be alright. When the moon passes over head you will return to your previous form. Rest here with me for a little while. Sshh, sshh."

The strange noises should make no sense to him, but something deep within Quietfeet stretches and _yearns_ towards them, and he makes out the most rudimentary of meanings from them. He is safe here, with Walks-alone, and when he is in his proper form she will explain things to him. This is enough to calm the pup, and he readily slips into a troubled sleep as his guardian runs her fingers through his hair.

Fat and full, a golden moon rides the sky above the two. Walks-alone wonders bitterly how long it will be before the moon sees Quietfeet only as a houndour, and no longer a boy. She knows she cannot stop the inevitable but- for just a little while, she would like to keep him by her side, before curiosity inevitably strikes him with its deadly poison. For a little while longer she would like him to remain innocent of the cruelty of man, to ignore and disregard that hidden side of his heritage.

For humans bring nothing but trouble and pain.


End file.
